Saving Danny (11 page)

The yoghurt pudding could only be eaten with a spoon, and Danny ate it slowly and meticulously, as he approached most things. Once he’d finished he put down his spoon, wiped his mouth on the napkin and said, ‘George.’

‘I’m collecting George tomorrow,’ I reminded him. ‘He’ll be here when you come back from seeing your mother.’

His brow furrowed as he processed this information. ‘George coming here tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘Yes, love.’

‘Tomorrow I am having dinner at my home. Then I come back here and feed George.’

‘Exactly right!’ I said, impressed. There was clearly a lot more to Danny than we realized.

Chapter Nine

Danny Drowning

I accepted that Danny would take much longer than the average six-year-old child to perform most tasks, and that patience was therefore a key element in managing his behaviour. However, I also thought that Danny needed to acquire more patience himself, for although, if an activity engaged him, he could stay involved in it for hours – the Lego, for example – he could also quickly explode with frustration if a task was challenging or didn’t immediately go his way. One such time was after dinner. He and I were sitting on the sofa in the living room, ready for me to hear him read, when his school bag, which he’d fetched from the hall without being asked, wouldn’t immediately open. He tugged the zipper a couple of times and then threw the bag angrily on the floor, stamped on it and began windmilling his arms like a giant insect stalled on take-off.

‘Danny,’ I said, searching for eye contact. ‘Don’t be upset. The zipper is stuck. I’ll help you open the bag. It can be easily sorted.’

‘Danny do it!’ he shouted, gritting his teeth.

‘Yes, you can undo it,’ I said. ‘I’ll show you how, but you need to calm down first.’

‘Danny do it!’ he said again angrily.

‘First, you need to sit down quietly,’ I said more firmly.

‘Danny do it,’ he repeated again, as though he was beating himself up for not doing it and had to prove he could.

‘You will do when I show you,’ I said, taking his arm. ‘Now sit down and calm down. It’s a zip fastener, not the end of the world.’ He let me draw him to the sofa and I sat him next to me. ‘That’s better,’ I said. ‘Now, take a few deep breaths and then we’ll undo your bag. Breathe in,’ I said, slowly drawing in a deep breath to show him. ‘And out. In and out.’ He began to copy me and gradually his breathing settled and he grew calmer. ‘That’s much better, good boy.’

I picked up his school bag from where he’d thrown it and set it on my lap. I could see straight away what was wrong. A small shred of paper had jammed in the teeth of the zipper, just as can happen with the material of a coat or jacket. Like most parents, I’d released many jammed zippers in my time and knew what to do.

‘Danny, you see this?’ I said, pointing to the shred of paper. ‘That’s the reason you couldn’t undo the zipper. The paper stopped it.’

Danny peered closely at the zipper, his mop of blond hair falling over his forehead.

‘This is how we fix it,’ I said. ‘Watch carefully and you’ll know how to do it next time.’ I gently eased the zipper up, scraped out the shred of paper, then drew it down again and the zipper ran freely, opening the bag. ‘There,’ I said, passing the bag to him. ‘All done. There was nothing to worry about. You’ll know how to fix it next time.’

He was quiet for a few moments as he surveyed the zipper and then said, ‘Yes, thank you very much.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I said.

‘You’re welcome,’ he repeated.

I smiled. Another crisis averted, but as Jill had said, Reva must have felt as though she was balancing on a tightrope, never knowing when Danny was going to erupt. I knew from past experience and training that children like Danny could easily become frustrated and angry. They are awash in a world they don’t understand or feel part of, and are therefore at the mercy of others’ behaviour and unpredictable events. One of the reasons Danny was so independent and insisted on doing things for himself was that it felt safer to him that way, to have control. This is true for all of us to some extent, but more so for a child like Danny with communication difficulties, who couldn’t easily voice his worries and fears.

Having calmed down, Danny took his book from his bag, confidently opened it and began reading the first page. He’d had the same book since Monday and it was very basic – a start to reading – but he read each of the six words that made up the short sentence correctly. There were four pages, each with a very short sentence and a colourful illustration. He loved the pictures and spent a long time studying them, both before and after reading the words. He stumbled on some of the sentences and I helped him, and he made it to the end of the book.

‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Very well read.’

‘Yes, thank you very much,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome.’

I smiled and could have kissed him, but he wasn’t ready for that yet. Then, in his well-practised routine, he returned the book to his bag and took out the flash cards, which he placed face down on my lap.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘You’re welcome,’ he returned.

Starting with the top card, I held it up for Danny to see. There was a long pause before he was able to recognize the word. ‘Well done,’ I said. I held up the next card and then the next, and so on. Each card showed a single word that had appeared in the book he’d just read, but taken out of context and without the picture for reference he struggled. He got about half of the eight cards right first time and I praised him. Those he got wrong we tried again and I helped him break down the word phonetically, but he quickly tired and grew agitated, windmilling his arms, so I knew it was time to stop.

‘Good boy. You’ve done well,’ I said. ‘That’s enough for this evening.’

‘Yes, thank you very much,’ he said. Whipping the cards out of my hand, he returned them to his bag and took out an exercise book, which he placed squarely on my lap. On the front was written ‘Home School Book’.

‘I have to write in this,’ I said.

He nodded and then watched me carefully as I opened the book and turned the pages. I would read it thoroughly when I had more time, but I read some of the entries. His teacher had written:
Danny was able to sit with the other children while I took registration. He practised his numbers to ten. At morning break he stayed in the playground for the whole fifteen minutes.
His mother’s comments included:
Danny was very tired and angry this evening so didn’t do his reading. Danny tore up his homework sheet. Danny hid for most of the evening and had an early night. Danny says he hates school.
That morning Yvonne had written:
Danny took a long time to settle and we spent half an hour in the quiet room.
The afternoon had improved and Yvonne had written:
Danny joined the other children in the class for art and story time.

‘So you had art today?’ I said. ‘You like that.’

‘Yes, thank you very much,’ he said.

I took my pen from the corner table and Danny watched me carefully as I wrote. I said out loud what I was writing. ‘Danny had a very good evening,’ I said slowly. ‘He met my social worker Jill, played with Lego, ate a good meal and then read his book to me. We spent ten minutes working with the flash cards and Danny got half of them right first time. Well done, Danny.’

I closed the book and, smiling, handed it back to him, and he returned it to his bag.

‘Time for your bath now,’ I said. I stood and offered him my hand.

‘Time for your bath,’ he repeated.

He ignored my hand but came with me, and we went upstairs with Danny clambering up on all fours like a much younger child. I knew his bath-time routine from his mother’s notes. First he went to the toilet while I waited outside. Then we went into his bedroom where he lifted soft-toy George from his pillow, took out his pyjamas and returned George to sit on top of the pillow.

‘Time for your bath now,’ he said again.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

We went out of his bedroom, round the landing and into the bathroom. I explained to him that I would run the water in his bath to make sure it was the right temperature, as I had done the night before with the water in the basin. I guessed he remembered this for he didn’t object as he had done the previous evening. While the bath filled he took off his clothes and put them into the laundry basket.

‘Good boy,’ I said.

Once the bath was ready, I offered him my hand to help him in. ‘You can get in now, Danny,’ I said. ‘It’s the right temperature.’

He suddenly gasped and, turning, flung open the bathroom door and ran round the landing in his birthday suit. I went after him. Lucy came up the stairs at the exact moment Danny flashed by on the landing. ‘Oh!’ she cried in mock horror, covering her eyes. ‘You haven’t got any clothes on!’ Lucy was joking, although in keeping with fostering guidelines we always wore clothes around the house and encouraged the children we fostered to do the same. While appearing naked in front of other family members is perfectly natural in many families, it can be very embarrassing, intimidating or even traumatic for a child who has been abused. But Danny was oblivious and continued into his bedroom, where he pulled open the bottom drawer of the chest and took out a plastic bag, which I now remembered contained his bath toys. ‘Well remembered,’ I said.

He closed the drawer, sped back round the landing to the bathroom and flung all the toys into the bath. Still refusing my help, he scrambled over the side of the bath, and then sat happily in the warm water playing with the toys. The brightly coloured plastic and rubber toys included a variety of fish, a small yacht and a dinghy that contained a little figure in diving gear. Danny chopped the water with his hands, creating waves, which made the fish appear to swim and the boats bob up and down as though they were on the ocean. While he was occupied playing, I washed his back with the sponge, and then gave it to him to wash his front and legs. Like with many boys his age, it was a very quick wash – he liked playing in the water but didn’t like washing. I knelt beside the bath as he continued playing contentedly. A warm bath is comforting for children, as it is for adults. Danny took the little diving man from the dinghy and plunged him into the water. ‘Drowning! Drowning!’ he suddenly cried, holding the toy under the water. Then he pulled the figure out. ‘Saved him!’ he declared. ‘Danny saved him!

I smiled.

He repeated this a number of times. He seemed to like the idea of the diver falling into deep water, nearly drowning and then being rescued by him. Perhaps it gave him a feeling of being in charge, I didn’t know. But then suddenly, without warning, Danny threw himself under the water and lay submerged in the bath with his mouth and eyes shut and his blonde hair floating out. I was surprised he didn’t mind the feeling of being completely covered by water – many children don’t like it and keep their heads above water when learning to swim. But Danny stayed beneath the water with his face submerged until his breath ran out and he had to come up for air.

‘Danny drowning,’ he said, as he sat upright, with water running down his face. He looked at me carefully.

‘No, you weren’t drowning,’ I reassured him. ‘You were playing a game and having fun. You’re safe.’

‘Danny drowning,’ he said again, more insistently, and taking a deep breath threw himself under the water again.

He stayed under for longer this time, and when he rose he looked at me, clearly expecting a reaction. ‘Danny drowning,’ he said adamantly.

I wasn’t sure what game this was, but it didn’t feel good to me. ‘No, you’re not drowning,’ I said. ‘You’re playing.’

He went under again and when he resurfaced he almost shouted, ‘Danny drowning!’

I thought it was time to end the game. ‘You’re safe,’ I said. ‘You’ve had your bath. Now it’s time to get out and dry yourself.’

‘Danny drowning,’ he said, and was clearly about to take a breath and go under the water again.

I opened the plug and the water began to drain out. ‘Danny will be on dry land very soon,’ I said.

He looked at me oddly, clearly not knowing what to make of this.

‘I like other games when Danny isn’t drowning,’ I said, and offered my hand to help him out.

He ignored my hand and with a lot of effort clambered over the side of the bath. I wrapped him in his bath towel and patted him dry as I knew from the notes his mother did. Reva hadn’t mentioned the ‘Danny drowning’ game, yet I felt sure it wasn’t something new, for it had seemed a well-practised routine to me.

Once Danny was dry I waited while he put on his pyjamas. He wanted to do it himself. I knew from the notes that he didn’t like the noise of a hairdryer, so following Reva’s advice I towel-dried his hair. I then waited as Danny meticulously brushed his teeth, wiped his mouth and spent some time folding and adjusting his towel on the rail beside ours. As we went round the landing I called to Adrian, Lucy and Paula that Danny was going to bed.

‘Night, Danny,’ Adrian called from his room.

Lucy and Paula came out of their rooms to say goodnight.

‘Would you like a kiss, Mister?’ Lucy asked, bending down to his height.

But he shook his head, so they just said goodnight.

In Danny’s room I parted his curtains as he’d showed me he liked them the evening before – even so he went over and adjusted them – then he turned down the dimmer switch until the light was a faint glow, which would stay on all night. Finally, he climbed into bed. I knew from Reva’s notes that she didn’t read him a story in bed, but kissed him goodnight and came out.

‘Would you like a kiss?’ I asked him.

He shook his head. ‘Mummy kiss Danny,’ he said.

‘That’s all right. I understand. Goodnight, love.’

He looked at me, almost making eye contact, and I knew he had something to say and was searching for the words he needed. There was often a delay before he spoke. ‘George come here tomorrow?’ he asked eventually.

‘Yes, that’s right, love. I’m collecting George tomorrow while you’re at school.’

He paused again before he said, ‘Danny go home for dinner and then George here?’